


The Case of the Bearded Posho

by Infinitely_Stranger



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (haha I'm not), (sorry), Case Fic, Crossdressing, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/F, Female Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, Femlock, Fluff and Crack, Genderswap, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, Overuse Of Parentheses, POV John Watson, Pre-Slash, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 06:29:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8239354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinitely_Stranger/pseuds/Infinitely_Stranger
Summary: Joan Watson reflects on life with her mad flatmate as she waits for said flatmate to arrive at a certain posho locale. Which is really not her scene. At all. But, when Sherlock says come... Well, Joan figures she might as well make the most out of it.Femlock ficlet, mostly humour.Not Beta'd. Not sure how to put 'Beta' in Past tense, actually. Betaed Betad Betaée Betato Betashita. Ok, I'll stop. All errors mine, and give us a shout if you see something glaringly obvious! I don't own these characters of course...





	

Let it be known that I hate these kinds of events. I particularly hate them when Sherlock insists that I come along, and then does not show up at the allotted time.

This is not to say that Sherlock isn’t timely, Sherlock’s plenty timely. Except when she isn’t, and then I find myself standing on some steps at some drinks event, and somewhere there are always some giant overbearing columns, and all I’m thinking is why, for once, can’t any of our clients, or prospective clients, or prospective clients’ prospective murderer’s second cousin ever drop round for drinks in a nice pub. Because that’s what I could go for. A nice pub, and a nice quiet pint, maybe a fireplace, and some chips, that’ll do me. We have those sometimes, after a case, and that’s perfect, honestly I have lost all ambition to see anything more of London’s finer drinking establishments.

I mean, I’m sure in retrospect this will make an entertaining blog entry (no, really, I know it sounds sarcastic, but I really am sure). I’d probably be enjoying it now if now had involved Sherlock actually bloody being there. But instead, it involves me in some gopping dress from the back of the closet and some god-awful heels. Fucking lady shoes, because I said ‘how ‘bout these trousers and a nice blouse,’ and all I got was the eyebrow. I said ‘what’s wrong with trousers, trousers are fine, Sherlock, this is what I’d wear for a drink after work,’ and all I got was the eyebrow. ‘Flats?’

‘Joan, I need us to blend in, or at least _I_ need to blend in. You don’t have to act like you belong there, but for heaven's sake, flats?’

‘Ok, fine, fine, I’ve got the heels. You won’t like them. You know, I’m just going to look like I got lost on my way to a work Christmas do. Five months lost.’

‘The black ones will do. And you’ll be fine,’ Sherlock flashed me a rare-ish smile.

‘Thanks, I wasn’t feeling _that_ insecure.’

‘I know. Right, I’m off,’ there was a swoosh, and I looked up from where I was trying to coax on the stockings to see the trail of her coat zipping around the door. I was pretty sure that dramatic coat-donning was going to destroy half the kitchen at some point soon, it was a long coat and covered a metre or so when in full swing, but as usual, she somehow managed to miss all the essential dishware for now. (I’d tried putting on my coat in that same swooshing, single movement way once, just to see if I could, when Sherlock wasn’t around obviously, and ended up getting my arm stuck. Both. My arms. Actually).

‘What, already, will you wait for me?’

‘Sorry, have to take care of a few things before hand. I’ll see you there at 8.’

‘Right sure. See you there I guess.’ I pondered the stockings.

‘Yes. Oh and Joan?’ the words floated up the stairwell, ‘The grey eye shadow’s more tolerable, you know, I’d go for that one.’

Brilliant. Now she was my wardrobe consultant. I mean, I was going to wear it anyway, probably. It was that or the purple, left over from my more gregarious days when… well frankly I’d never worn it, and god knows I wouldn’t risk that in this kind of place.

It wasn’t a heartening process, the whole mirror routine, I mean it was fine, but I’ve never particularly taken well to those posho sort of crowds – it was always a bit of Sherlock wafting/swooping around, and me, well standing like a normal person, and waiting for whatever trouble was going to happen happen. And following around in the footsteps of the wafting, and wondering why it always was that these sorts of places were so much more conducive to the long wafting types of people than the stumpy practical ones, and marvelling at how Sherlock could go transform such a massive amount of elbow and pretty bony hip to something bridging on willowy. Had to be a skill, that. Bet she practiced, actually, I could see that ('wafting practice, 14:37-14:54'). I tried it once in front of the mirror, and swiftly decided that no, forget wafting, I’d go with the standard solid ‘normal human movements’ thing. Leave the graceful bit of the act to Sherlock.

Gun? Probably (another annoyance with dresses). Also flats in the handbag, just in case. I would risk Sherlock sneering at the handbag for that, and forever rue all those idiots who think anyone in their right mind would go for a sprint in heels. Forget it. I had the misfortune of attempting it once, early on in Sherlock and my acquaintance, and that was an entire film genre and a half ruined for me, not to mention the shoes, and nearly both ankles.

And then it’s 20:27, and I’m outside in front of those bloody great pillars wishing I had trousers and my greatcoat, and shoes whose main component is not probably cardboard of questionable origin (ok, fine these were the slightly nicer ones, the ones that were harder to wear that we had had to buy for the other case, the one where I had to pretend to be a barrister for about 10 minutes, and Sherlock insisted that anything other than leather would be completely obvious and give the game away. Obviously.)

Fucking Sherlock. Ah, sorry, not actually the verb, obviously. Bloody late. Should’ve known, actually – I’d got her text when I was halfway there that’d said ‘the name’s Fielder, by the way SH’. Should’ve known it meant that whatever she was up to had held her up, and I ought to go in on my own. It’s been half an hour, so I give the name and am let in. And it’s like a horrible crush of tall people, exactly as suspected. Oh well. Hopefully I will be able to hear my phone, hopefully will be able to elbow my way through the people, in case Sherlock’s business actually held her up in something actually problematic. I make my way over to the bar, trying to note something about the people on the way, not sure of where will be the most Sherlock-convenient place to stand in, pretty much hoping I get a text that says something to the effect of ‘Joan help, am trapped somewhere far away from the crowded posho bar, give up that plan and come at once SH’, but obviously that doesn’t happen, and there I am nursing a drink and taking cover next to an ornamental palm (happily the name ‘Fielder’ has an open tab, leading me to assume that ‘Fielder’ is actually Mycroft’s account, which Mycroft probably doesn’t know about it. Cocktail it is then).

Time for crowd surveying. It’s events like these where I end up attempting to deduce things like Sherlock, and then usually end up getting frustrated after a few minutes, because, while I can see things that might be meaningful, I don’t have Sherlock’s seemingly endless supply of data, so I can only imagine her telling me what things mean, while I end up getting a weird look from some woman who must have thought I was staring at her cleavage, when I was only trying to figure out if I could visually distinguish between silver, pewter, and platinum on her necklace. Unsurprisingly the answer is no, and now I’m wishing I could have mustered a look that was slightly more feminine or something that wouldn’t put me under suspicion of leering. Ah, she thinks she has something on her chest, like food or something. That’s fine then. I look away, visually sweep the room for Sherlock, wondering what on earth she’ll turn up in. Can’t actually remember what she left the house in – must’ve been something normal, she must have gone back to the flat to change or something. Either way, it’s usually something alarming at these events… something alarmingly sleek, or alarmingly trendy with some hairstyle that she’d never wear in her right mind except on a case ( _ugh, why would I brush my hair, dull!_ ).

Consider starting a conversation with the palm tree, check the phone, survey the crowd again. No one seems particularly dodgy, or anything useful. There are a particularly high percentage of well dressed men here. Loads of them bridging on the ridiculously young, which is somewhat disheartening (I must be getting old. Am I getting old? I never used to notice people being too young, and now they’re everywhere). Actually, now that I’m looking around, I notice there’s a smartly dressed chappy with a trendy, stubbly sort of beard just down the bar from me who’s clearly doing the same thing I’m doing – staring off into the crowd and avoiding people. It makes me smile a bit – always a relief that you’re not the only crazy one in the house. I check my phone again. Still no word from bloody Sherlock. I send her another text. ‘Still inside, let me know when you get here. Alright?’

 Right, while I wait, I figure I might as well edge over to the gent in the spiffing suit jacket. Figure I might as well make the most of my time here…

‘Not exactly your crowd?’ I say to him. Smart cut that, his jacket. I can hear Sherock in my head _gay!_ No… Doesn’t actually seem to be though. And I know Sherlock has poo-pooed the notion of gaydar, but mine is generally accurate (she does still try to catch me out on it though – hasn’t succeeded yet).

‘Not exactly, no,’ bit posh, him, not so surprising, ‘I don’t mind though, what about yourself?’

‘Eh, no, not exactly. I’m just here meeting a friend.’ Lithe. That’s the word you’d use for him. Lithe. Not flimsy, but sort of long and elegant. Not… exactly what I’d normally go for, but something about him struck me as sort of interesting.

‘Oh. Right.’

‘Oh, not… _that_ sort of friend. Female friend, flatmate, I mean, you know.’ He’s got nice hands, sort of long and elegant, with nice angular bits. Reminds me a bit of… I don’t know, something you’d see on a musician or something.

‘Sure. Me too,’ he keeps surveying the crowd, ‘that’s the trouble with friends, isn’t it, they always drag you out somewhere.’

‘I guess. I don’t really mind. Keeps things interesting.’

‘Yes, you definitely seemed interested, that’d be why you keep checking your phone?’

‘Oh, uh, just checking… for my friend.’

‘Right. Right. Can I uh, can I buy you a drink?’

‘Uh, thanks, already have one. Next round?’

‘No, really, I feel like I owe you one.’

‘Uh, why’s that then?’

He turned towards me, and I saw that he was smiling, no, laughing, almost collapsing on the bar really.

‘Because that has been the absolute highlight of my evening, I swear, bloody brilliant Joan, did you really not recognise me that whole time? I can’t believe it!’

 Fuck. It’s fucking Sherlock.

‘Fuck you, goddamn it Sherlock! You fucking bastard!’ I punched his shoulder. Her shoulder. Fucking ass!

 ‘No really!’ she gasped ‘I mean, I know I’m good, but you bloody live with me – how could you not recognise me, you should’ve seen your face!’

‘Shut up. Just shut up.’

‘No, really. Were you flirting? Was that what that was? Is that how you flirt?’

‘No, not flirting, just making conversation. You looked bored.’

‘You sought out the most bored looking person to make conversation with, brilliant. Bloody brilliant tactic, I love it! We have to do this more often!’

‘I get it, please just, that’s enough already. Ok? I didn’t recognise you, it’s pretty hard to see in here with the red lights and that stupid disco strobe, so don’t get too puffed up about it. And you were doing something funny with your voice.’

‘What, this?’ Suddenly there was no Sherlock and only that thing that was slightly too posh, but also sort of low and… could you call a voice smoky? It was sort of smoky, or something.

‘Stop it.’

‘No, I can’t stop it Joan, this is how I talk. Or how I will be talking for the rest of the evening, so you better get used to it,’ she added in her normal voice, before dropping back into the growly whatever it was, ‘Why, does it bother you?’ she slid over so her shoulder was pressing against mine, ‘do you think it’s… effective.’ Now it was bloody dripping, for fuck’s sake. Dripping in my ear like vocal toffee.

‘Cut it out,’ I pushed her away with an effort of the shoulder.

She rolled back on the bar, laughing, ‘Oh this is brilliant, I’m so glad you came. Have you spotted Dawson yet?’

‘No, I haven’t, is that who we’re looking for then?’

‘Of course it is. Her and her boyfriend, or whatever, the one who’s been having an affair via Grindr,’

‘Tindr,’ I corrected, she never got them right.

‘No, Grindr, you don’t _listen_ , and has been using that to distract her from the blackmarket knickers trade he's been running from her flat.'

'Wait, blackmarket  _what_? I thought you said it was something with the mafia!'

'Yes of course it is, keep up. He thought he'd solve his financial problems by tapping into Europe's _burusera_ market.'

'Buru- oh no, I don't even want to know.' I hadn't known Sherlock could read Japanese until earlier in the week, when I'd discovered an extensive search in my browser history involving vending machines and used pants. It probably reflected poorly on the state of my life that I hadn't even bothered questioning why Sherlock looked these things up.  Or why the more cringeworthy the item was, the more likely I'd find her commandeering  _my_ laptop for the cause.

'Yes, she's his supplier of sorts,' Sherlock wrinkled her nose, 'of course, she doesn't know, thinks he's got an online gambling habit. And possibly a concealed fetish for hideous ruffles. It'd all be terribly dull if he hadn't accidentally made a sale to the Japanese mafia.'

'Fine. Right. Entirely unrelated, but … why is it you had to come here dressed as guy?’

‘No reason, really, thought it’d make it more interesting. Dresses get tedious after a while.’

‘Right…’

‘Oh come on, it’s a disguise. I’m getting a bit recognisable thanks to your little blog, but I find the gender switch always really throws the unobservant. It worked on _you_.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s just because of the lighting, and you weren’t even really facing me.’

‘So you’d take a drink from someone you hadn’t even looked in the eye.’

‘Just shut up about it, Sherlock.’

‘Oh don’t be so put out, just because you couldn’t wear those scruffy brogues you love so much. It wouldn’t make sense for _you_ to come here dressed like this.’

‘Why not?’

The scoff was entirely Sherlock, ‘Oh come on, of the two of us, you’re the only one with actual feminine assets to speak of.’

Right, obviously. Benefits of being bony, I guess ( _lithe._ Shut up, brain), ‘You know, if you lived off of more than air and biscuits…’

‘Oh Joan, no amount of midnight chip runs will result in anything over a B cup, I tested it when I was seventeen. I take after my grandfather. Shame really, Mycroft takes after our Nan. Not the French one, the other one. His chest was at least a D in his heyday. What’s that word you used for it. Some dreadful portmanteau, oh yes, moobs.’

‘Horrible. Just horrible.’

‘I know. And here’s your drink.’

‘No, nope, absolutely not, I…’

‘Please, I may not be a gentleman, but I am a gentleman at heart,’ the posh growly voice was there again, otherwise she'd have got a ribbing for all of it.

‘Fine, but next time, I get to wear the trousers.’

‘Whatever you like.’

‘C’mon, I’m definitely the man of our household.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Well, aside from the tea-making… inclusive, actually, I’m the only one who does anything practical, plus I pay the bills, albeit with your case earnings, and you’re the one with any fashion sensibility…’

‘Joan, I’m surprised at you!’

‘What?’

‘Your gender binary is absolutely appalling. I would’ve given it to you simply for the Doc Martin’s at the opera incident, but the other things…’

‘Hey, it was not my fault you called me while I was halfway back from work. In a gale, might I add. Those boots were practical. I don’t carry opera shoes in my… I don’t know… girdle, or whatever it is you do.’ An ongoing mystery to me was how Sherlock could be mincing around in deathly heels one moment, only to have them magically transform into something flat, grippy, and no doubt waterproof, the second we were called upon to give chase. As I hadn’t even managed to catch her changing footwear, I now suspected both her coat pockets and, more recently, her bra.

‘Yes, but I refuse to accept that practicality or fashion sensibility defines gender, it’s a social construct, obviously,’ Sherlock was saying as she dandled her drink in an aloof manner.

‘Obviously.’

‘Yes, that’s what I said, keep up.’

**Author's Note:**

> That's all for this one, for now! I've actually written quite a lot with these characters, including a more serious, and longer thing I'll post in a bit. Might do some humorous cases, maybe in the pre-slash period.  
> This is my first fic so I'd be curious to hear what people think. Also, I've been out of the country for a while, so do let me know if something sounds off (e.g. they've redesigned Tesco) (just kidding, I've managed to leave Tesco out of this one).  
> Might do a podfic if I can figure out how...


End file.
